Kindness Yet
by Polly Lynn
Summary: Summary: "He's drunk on her doorstep with a single red rose. It's New Year's Eve, closing in on midnight, and he's looking at her like she's the last person in the world he ever expected to see." One-Shot. Set season 4 (NYE, 2011–2012).


Title: Kindness Yet

WC: 3000

Rating: T

Summary: "He's drunk on her doorstep with a single red rose. It's New Year's Eve, closing in on midnight, and he's looking at her like she's the last person in the world he ever expected to see." Set season 4 (NYE, 2011–2012).

A/N: Something from sick, busy, more-sleepless-than-usual Brain for the last day. Not as good as Cora Clavia's "a compact revolution," but born of the same conversation that Castle never really employs the in vino veritas device.

* * *

We'll take a cup of kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

* * *

He's drunk on her doorstep with a single red rose. It's New Year's Eve, closing in on midnight, and he's looking at her like she's the last person in the world he ever expected to see.

"Kate." His eyes go wide, like the sound of her name—her first name—is a greater shock even than finding her here. He corrects himself. Even though she's Kate so much of the time now, he corrects himself. "Beckett."

She stares. She should say something, but she can't. She can't help him. It's not that she's unsympathetic. But he's the one drunk on her doorstep with a single red rose. They're going to have to be shocked one at a time. And it's her doorstep. She gets to go first.

Her mouth opens and closes on nothing.

_Castle?_ His name with a question mark. It's a possibility, but redundant. It gets them no farther than hers. Either of hers.

_Are you drunk?_ Too obvious. Too hard for her and there's half a moment of apology in his eyes when he knows that. Half a moment when he smooths his shirt and tries to look steadier than he is—than it's possible for him to be right now—because he, of all people, knows.

_What are you doing here?_ Too dangerous by half. They both know the answer.

But the question comes anyway. Another surprise. His voice, not hers. "What are you doing here?"

She wonders if she might be drunk, too. She hasn't been drinking. A glass of wine she abandoned hours ago when the waning hours of the year got too heavy, but she wonders anyway. If she might be imagining the vulnerable hollow of his throat between the off-kilter red angles of his collar.

Or maybe she nodded off, her mind heavy with everything. Maybe she dreamed all this. Her questions in his mouth. Him on her doorstep with a single red rose. The two of them together, closing in on midnight on New Year's Eve.

"Kate," he says. He closes his eyes and gives a small shake of his head. Sways on his feet a little and corrects himself again. "Beckett. Why aren't you out? Why don't you have a tiny dress and tall pretty shoes and a glass that's never empty? Why aren't you out on a balcony or a ballroom floor, Kate?"

His eyes flick open. He turns a sloppy smile on her. A little dreamy, a little wicked. Like he's getting away with her first name. Like he's picturing it. Her twirling, bare armed in the cold by a window. Looking out over the city with the low light inside catching the gold in her glass and sending out sparks.

The smile turns sad, then. Familiar. It's his everyday look now, she realizes, and she feels her own face fall.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it's full of so many things.

It's rehearsed and there's weight there. Not just the effort of a clumsy tongue, heavy with liquor. The weight of so much in three syllables. Two words.

She wonders how he got here. Literally. The mundane details of the process. Cab or on foot. Subway or down the chimney she doesn't have. She wonders about the journey and how much time he had to work on a two-word speech with so much in it. A two-word speech he didn't expect to give. He didn't think he'd find her here, but he practiced this. An apology just in case.

He worries the stem of the rose lightly between his palms and says it again. He looks her in the eyes this time. "I'm sorry, Beckett."

"For what, Castle?" It pulls his name from her. A question of her own. The repetition shapes the words in her mouth and coaxes them out. Breath and sound and a sudden, mad impulse to lean into him. To rest her body against his and take the two of them tumbling down.

"For what?" She asks, even though she thinks she knows.

She sees the half a moment of apology again. Regret. Shame. Because he knows more than anyone about her dad and those years. The pain of navigating this on her doorstep in the middle of the night.

But it's more. The apology is theirs, too. For all the times he hasn't knocked. All the times she hasn't stumbled through his door when it would have been the kindest thing for both of them, if not the wisest. She's not ready. She's _not._

"I shouldn't be here," he says quietly. Not quite sadly, and he's trying to stand tall. His body quivers with the effort, but he won't lean against the doorframe or the wall. He won't ask her to keep him upright. He doesn't expect it, and he has his pride, even though he's drunk on her doorstep

"Probably not," she says, stubborn pride in her own mouth now. She plucks the rose from his palms. She tugs at his sleeve and pulls him inside. She flips the locks and slides the security chain home. "Probably not, Castle."

* * *

She takes his coat and unwinds his scarf when it proves too much for his fingers. He stands, patient for once, and waits with heavy hands at his sides. She drapes the coat over her arm and turns his shoulders. She settles him on the couch. Tells him softly, "Just sit."

He does, hands folded obediently in his lap and his head hanging. She smiles. Cracks instantly and the brave feeling dissolves with the lift of her arms and the heavy drape of his coat on the hook, because what now? _What now?_

Her fingers close into fists. It's a gesture so well worn these last few months that she has calluses now where her nails dig into her palms. But she forgets about the rose. A sudden, sharp pain. Tough skin breaking and a bead of blood. A hiss. An exclamation or a sound. There must be that, because he's on unsteady feet moving toward her. Saying her name.

"Kate!" He takes the rose from her. Unfurls her palm and brings it close to his face.

She pulls back, sharper than she means to, but it's too much. His breath on her skin. The warmth of his body and the smell of snow in his hair. She's not brave anymore. She pulls back.

He's standing three steps from her. He's standing at the edge of her kitchen alone. Apart from her with the rose in his hands. He looks down at it, a flash of _something_ crossing his face. Anger maybe, and he has every right. Annoyance if she's lucky. And she is. _She is._

He looks up at her and she names it. _Stubbornness._ She wants to laugh. It makes her feel lighter. Like they have one shred of bravery between them and they trade it back and forth like this. In prickly insistence. Warm and uncivil. Tender in their way.

He looks up at her. Holds the rose between the two of them and pulls it back when she reaches for it.

"It's not yours," he says. Testy. Definitely stubborn.

"No?" She reaches for it. Plucks it from him and leaves him empty handed.

He looks at her, shocked, and she turns. Hides a smile and busies herself looking for something to put it in. Half a dozen vases stand empty on a ledge, but she can't stand the thought of it alone in any of them, the stem listing against a too-wide rim. She reaches past for a bottle. Something she saved because she liked the deep color of the glass and the way the beveled edge catches the light.

"It's _for_ you." His puzzled frown gives way to something smug. Blearily satisfied. "It's not from me."

She narrows her eyes. Stares him down until he blinks. She tips her head down and hides another smile as she fills the bottle with water. "Not from you."

"No." He's smug again. Annoyed, then smug. "Secret admirer."

She drops the stem into the water. Watches the rose bob, then settle at an exquisite angle. It's lovely.

"Not from you." She looks at him head on. He shakes his head eagerly. Like he's gotten away with something. Like this is an interrogation and he's winning. "You've brought me flowers before."

She's thinking of another day. The same doorstep and tear stains she knows he must see on her cheeks. A profusion of gold and green and orange and white held out to her in offering. The light of his smile behind it all when she asks him in.

But he's not thinking of that. The air fractures between them and the last shred of bravery burns up.

"Sad flowers," he says to his hands on the counter. To white knuckles there to steady him. "Sorry flowers."

"For what?" It's faint. Her own voice, though she doesn't want to ask. She's angry. She doesn't want him to say. She doesn't want to hear it, but the words come again. "Sorry for_ what,_ Castle?"

He lifts his eyes to hers. He doesn't want this any more than she does, but they can't seem to stop now. "Because I couldn't save you. Everyone said I could. That I had to. But I couldn't. I didn't."

"Everyone?" It's the word she latches on to. The one thing she can grab in this whole mess. In the years and years and _years_ of things they never talk about.

It's the one thing, but he waves it away. Retreats to his solid ground. The thing he's insisting on.

"It's not from me." He shakes his head. "Those. The other ones. Those said different things."

"What does this say?" She curves her hand around the glass. Dark red, dark blue, and a bead of blood.

He struggles. Words like writing on his face. Up and down his body and all over his skin, but he chooses one. Not for a while, but he chooses one. "Passion."

* * *

"It has to be aspirin."

She settles him on the couch again. A long struggle after the moment breaks. Because the moment always breaks and they're left with jagged pieces. Tiny shards that draw blood when they least expect it.

The rose needs an aspirin. He's adamant, and she promised because she needs him to sit. But he pops up again the minute she steps away. He tries to follow and trips over everything in his path. A few things that_ aren't_ in his path, and this is why she needs him to sit.

"An aspirin. Yes," she snaps.

It wounds him all out of proportion. He wilts and trails back to the couch. He perches on the edge and stares at his shoes like he's glad he still has them. Like he's thinking about going.

She should want that. This is complicated and dangerous and so hard on both of them. She should want him to want to go, but she retraces her steps instead. She sinks on to the long edge of the couch, bare toes knocking against the salt-stained tips of his shoes. He must have walked, damned fool that he is. _Damned fool._

"Do you need one, Castle?" She asks gently, but he curls further in on himself. "Do you need anything?"

"Need." He repeats it.

Her heart is pounding before the word is even out. She feels his eyes on her and the last thing in the world she wants to do is look. The last thing she wants to face is the answer. _No._ It's been too long. Too hard on both of them. _No._ There's nothing he needs from her. It's the last thing she wants to face, but she owes it to him.

She raises her eyes to his and it's nothing like that. It's more complicated. _Yes. I need you._ It's that instead. Acceptance, too, though. That she's not ready. That she's trying and they're closer. Belief in that and a stubborn question. _Why not? Why not now?_

It's simpler, too. For him, it's simpler and this all hurts more for the constant truth of it. _I love you._

He holds her gaze. It's the steadiest thing about him tonight so far, and she'll be the one to break. She knows she will. He reaches for her fingers. Fumbles them in his own and brings them to his lips, because he might be the kindest man she's ever met, but he's not a saint.

_Why not now?_ She closes her eyes against it, because she doesn't know. With him this near to her, she _doesn't._

"An aspirin, Beckett." He sets her hand back on her knee. Folds his own fingers again, demurely in his lap. "An aspirin for me and one for the rose."

* * *

She makes them tea. It's another struggle. A shakier version of their usual bickering. Too loud and too feeling as they work their way back to neutral ground from where they've been. _Some place new,_ she tells herself stubbornly. Her fingertips tingle with the echo of a kiss and she holds on to it. _Some place further along._

Midnight comes and goes while she's busy at the counter. The bottle shakes with distant celebration and the rose rocks back and forth.

He gets up again. Slower now, but a little steadier. He steps around the furniture with exaggerated care to peer out the window. He scans the darkness for fireworks, but it's overcast. Nothing but thunder from here, the light lost to winter fog.

"You can feel them," he says as she hands him the mug. He swaps it to his left and presses his right palm to the glass. "Fireworks."

She steps up next to him. Brave again with both of them on their feet and the outside world to wonder about. She presses her own palm into the next pane over. Wonders at the contrast between them.

The sky lights up, then. Someone's big finale, more than a little late, but enough to break the darkness into pieces. To limn the low clouds with green and pink and gold. Fiery red at the last and she feels it. The same pulse running through them. Shaking the glass and spreading out under his palm and hers.

She smiles. It's lovely, too. This moment. She leans her forehead into the window. Feels the last wave roll away. She turns her head. Presses her cheek to the coolness and smiles at him. "Happy New Year, Castle."

He smiles, too. Hardly sad at all. "Happy New Year, Kate."

* * *

It's easier to argue with him along the way. He's better for tea, aspirin, and time. Better for the moments between them, she reminds herself. For the fact that they're further along, however small the steps. She takes up the stubborn shred of bravery and insists on it. He's better for all of it, but he's still far from sober.

There's no possibility that they'll get a cab. None at all, and she'd rather not drive for a dozen different reasons.

"I'm fine," he insists. Frowns down the next second a hydrant he's barely managed to dodge. "You can't walk home alone."

"Can and do, Castle." She stops at the corner. Holds out an arm to stop him from stepping out into traffic. Winces when he walks into it hard. "All the time," she adds as she rubs away the sting.

"I don't want you to." He's moping down at the curb. Rocking from heel to toe like he likes living dangerously.

"Don't want me to what?" She asks over her shoulder when the light changes. _"Castle!"_

He startles. She's halfway across the street, and he's still standing on the corner, rolling the dice with his balance.

"Be alone," he says.

"Wouldn't be if you'd keep up," she grumbles. She holds out her hand to him. Impatient and prickly and brave.

_"You_ keep up, Beckett," he grumbles back, and that's brave, too. He catches her fingers. Brushes by her like he knows it is, and tugs her along.

* * *

He stops dead in front of his building. Looks from her to the soft light of the lobby like he doesn't know how they got here. Like it's the dirtiest trick ever and she's behind it. She is, of course. It was so much easier to argue along the way.

"You can't walk home alone." He holds tightly to her fingers and kicks a dirty pile of snow. This is stubborn, not drunk, and they could both freeze to death waiting for one of them to give.

"I'll get a cab," she says finally. She gestures helplessly inside. "Eduardo will get me a cab."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not _that_ drunk, Beckett. Even Eduardo can't get you a cab now."

"Castle . . ." She trails off. Tired and no more eager to leave than he is to let her go.

"You could stay." He doesn't look at her, though. He knows the answer. They both do.

_I shouldn't be here_. It's what she thinks. It's what she almost says. It's as true as it was for him. Truer than that because he wonders Why not now? and she doesn't know.

"What are you doing here, Castle?" she asks instead. "Why aren't you out? In a tuxedo? In the back of a limousine?"

He looks at her, then. Studies her face and she studies his. She doesn't break this time. She doesn't look away.

They stand toe to toe, their fingers still entwined.

He looks away first. Drops his eyes with a smile to their hands. He turns her palm up. Brushes his thumb over the red spot that's barely there now. The bead of blood long since gone.

"Couldn't, Beckett." He raises his face to hers again. Gives her a sloppy smile. One that's a little wicked as he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her palm. "Had a delivery to make."


End file.
